


Leapin' Lizards

by GwendolynGrace



Category: Quantum Leap, Supernatural
Genre: Crossover, Gen, Wee!chesters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-11
Updated: 2013-06-11
Packaged: 2017-12-14 15:20:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 18,599
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/838397
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GwendolynGrace/pseuds/GwendolynGrace
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is set sometime within the first year or so of Project Quantum Leap (because the first season of QL is the only one I have on DVD currently!). The Leap Date is July 8, 1991. Dr. Sam Beckett Leaps in to save a life, which is not ususual…what’s unusual is that he’s saving it from an angry spirit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally written as a birthday present for Ficwriter1966. It is canon-compliant for Supernatural seasons 1-2, but not necessarily any of the later seasons or tie-in materials
> 
> As with most of my crossovers, if you are minimally familiar with either fandom, you will be able to enjoy the fic without needing too much knowledge of the other fandom used herein.
> 
> Quantum Leap was created by Don Bellisario and is owned by NBC TV. Supernatural was created by Eric Kripke and is owned by WB / CWTV. I was created by a rare act of silliness on my parents’ part and am (entirely) owned by my obsessions.

The first thing Sam Beckett became aware of, after the all-too familiar tingling of the Leap, was that he was sitting in a parked car, alone. Since Sam so rarely got to enjoy the luxury of peace and quiet and time to orient himself, he indulged in a contented sigh of relief before examining his surroundings. It appeared to be a highway rest stop, and the car was a pretty nice classic car. Not that he knew much about cars—that was more Al’s thing. But was it a classic where he was, or was it new? Sam glanced around at the other cars for any clue as to what year it was. 

He glanced at his image in the mirrors and saw a man of about 40 years, with short dark hair cut in long sideburns and a strong, square jaw. Though the eyes that looked back at him were brown, they told him nothing about the man he’d Leapt into—Sam’s own emotions always showed in his host’s eyes. 

Using the side mirrors, Sam looked down at muscular arms, dusted with dark hair. His left wrist sported a no-nonsense black watch, and his left ring finger bore a simple gold wedding band. He appeared to be a trim, though not ultra-fit, figure, dressed in working-man’s jeans and layers of t-shirt and solid twill overshirt, cuffs rolled up to the elbows. Sam surveyed the car again for more information. He noted the tape deck (that wasn’t an original feature—couldn’t have been, could it?), and the maps and tapes that littered the front seat. 

Since he was by himself and at a rest stop, Sam knew there was only one direction to drive. But where was he going? He decided to wait for Al. He’d be along soon and no doubt would be able to tell Sam all he needed to know. This might even be his easiest leap ever, he thought, as he leaned back in the seat. The pleasant warmth of the car lulled him and he closed his eyes while he waited. 

Before long, he heard two young voices approaching from the restroom building on his right. He listened without really waking himself up. 

“Dean! Gimme that back!” 

“No way, squirt! You’ll have to take it, if you can!” They must have tussled, because a few seconds later, Sam heard: 

“Dean, lemme go!” Sam wondered whether he should intervene, but before he could decide on appropriate action, “Dean” slammed the other boy into the rear passenger door and the car rocked. Sam’s eyes opened a bit. Out the window he could see two boys--brothers, perhaps?--fighting over a book. The older boy looked about eleven, dirty blond and slim as a rail. The younger, darker boy was also chubbier, perhaps nine, maybe not even. He was currently being held in a half nelson. 

“What’s so special about this book, anyway?” Dean asked, ignoring his brother’s attempts to grab the book, and dragging him around in a circle next to the car. Sam, figuring they hadn’t seen him asleep, settled back down. These two would get in their parents’ vehicle and leave him in peace, he knew. Any second now. 

But they didn’t. Dean opened the rear door and pushed his brother in. “Get in the car,” he said. Sam shut his eyes tight, hoping against hope that this was not really happening. The little boy crawled from the passenger side over to the driver’s while his brother triumphantly opened the book. 

SPROING! A large spring-loaded snake popped out of the hollowed book covers. Dean shrieked and jumped away from it, only to immediately realize his foolishness and turn bright red with embarrassment. Meanwhile, his little brother howled with laughter in the back seat. 

“Did you see the look on his face? Dean, you screamed like a girl!” 

Dean wrenched open the door. “SAM!” he yelled, loud enough to make both occupants jump. 

“What, I’m here! What!?” Sam Beckett said reflexively from the driver’s seat, the yell waking him up completely. 

Both boys went dead quiet and looked at him in confusion. 

“Da-ad?” Dean asked first, settling into the seat. His question was clearly more “What the heck?” than simply, “What?” 

Sam looked at the two boys watching him expectantly, swallowed, and said, “Oh, boy.” 

~*~*~*~ 

“Er…Sorry…I was just catching a nap, there. What did…uh, Sam do, Dean?” Sam asked in what he hoped was a sanguine, but not too indulgent, parental way. 

“Uh…nothin’, Dad,” Dean said quickly. “It’s okay.” He leaned over to little Sam and growled, “I’ll get you later.” 

“Nobody’s getting anybody,” Sam--he guessed he’d better start thinking of himself as…who was he? Well, Dad, for now--said. This much at least he remembered from road trips with his sister: someone was always starting trouble, and his parents constantly had to referee. “You boys buckled up back there?” 

The two exchanged another quizzical look, and Sam froze, wondering if he’d screwed up already. Perhaps this car was so old it didn’t have rear seatbelts? Finally, Dean dug the straps out from the crease of the seat and made little Sam buckle his while he fastened his own. “All set, Dad,” he reported. 

“Okay,” Sam said. He hesitated. Nothing to do but turn on the car, pull onto the highway, and pray Al showed up before they drove to one end of the country or the other. He twisted the key, getting a jolt from the heavy thrum of the engine, and carefully backed out of the parking space. 

There had only been a couple cars parked at the rest area, and they and other cars on the road looked decidedly more modern than the roadster they were in, plus, Sam realized as he picked up a tape at random, these tapes were much newer than the car. But it didn’t help him much in the way of a year, or anything else for that matter. He opted for the radio--at least it would tell him the date, the time, some news, anything to help place him in a context. 

“…President Bush reflected on the end of the Persian Gulf War in a press conference this afternoon. It’s been a month since the end of that conflict….” 

Sam couldn’t believe his luck, finding a solid date so quickly. So it was probably 1991. 

“…Hey, this Thursday, be sure to carve out some time to watch the solar eclipse. This is the first eclipse visible in North America since 1979. The eclipse will be visible from about 10 AM to 1 PM, reaching its peak right about noon. The meteorological society and our own Dan the Weatherman reminds you that even when eclipsed, it is dangerous to look directly at the sun. But it’s not dangerous to go ‘Walking on the Moon,’ so keep it tuned here to WHZT, all the best of the 80s and now. Police, coming up after this break.…” 

Sam tuned in and out of the DJ’s patter. It was hard to listen with the young Sam in the back saying, “Whoa, an eclipse!” and his brother telling him he was a geek, but Sam picked up the salient details. The eclipse was the clincher - it was early July 1991. He thought he had a fair idea of what was going on--summer, on the road with his kids—camping trip, maybe?—and what he might be here to do. Probably there was an accident to be avoided, or something equally identifiable. Now all he needed was Al to confirm it. Where the hell was Al? 

“Dad, can I ride shotgun after dinner?” Dean called up to the front seat. “Sammy’s cruisin’ for a little special time alone with his homework.” 

“Dean’s cruisin’ for…for a little special time running behind the car,” “Sammy” piped up. 

“Nobody’s cruisin’ for anything,” Sam said, surprised at how much deeper this voice was than his own. 

Dean slumped in his seat. “Can we at least listen to Mötorhead instead of this bubblegum fake-rock stuff?” 

“What’s wrong with the Police?” Sam asked, and realized he’d made another mistake. “I mean…this isn’t so bad.” Inspired, he added, “And it’s not something we’ve heard over and over.” 

“Yeah, ’cause it sucks,” Dean muttered, eyeing his father skeptically, but subsided. Sammy looked up from his book. 

“Driver picks the music, Dean,” he said in a singsong voice. “Everyone else shuts his cakehole.” He rocked back against the seat and buried his nose in the pages. 

“Gonna shut _your_ cakehole,” Dean said darkly. 

“What?” Sam demanded--he was getting the impression that their real father was somewhat free on the discipline end, but nevertheless he didn’t think any parent would let that kind of threat go unchecked. 

“Nothing, sir,” Dean said hastily, subsiding. “How much farther tonight, Dad?” 

Sam didn’t know how to answer, since he didn’t quite know where they were going. He decided to play professor and buy himself time--maybe even answers. 

“Well, do you remember the name of the place we’re going?” he asked in teacher-voice. 

Dean looked a little offended. “Blue Earth?” he said, as if his father knew it as well as he did. Probably right, normally. 

“Okay,” Sam said genially, and picked up a few of the maps. He passed them back. “See if you can find it on one of these. We’re….” he paused to look at a convenient mile-marker sign, with distances to the next major cities… “forty miles away from Sandusky.” Ohio! Sam felt a little thrill of satisfaction. He knew where he was, he knew where he was going, and he thought he knew why…. 

“Why’d you give me the map for Tennessee, Dad?” Dean asked. 

“Wasn’t looking. Anyway, I’m driving—you’re navigating,” Sam said, and it worked. Dean was instantly on-task and stopped asking questions. 

When he moved the maps, Sam noticed a battered leather journal in the seat. Faded paper and yellowing newsprint protruded from its edges. Sam made a note to leaf through it when they stopped, certain that it would help tremendously with figuring out his mission for the Leap. 

Suddenly his view of the journal was obscured by a pair of fire-engine red trousers, encasing Admiral Al Calavicci’s crotch. Sam groaned. 

“Boy, what a beauty this car is, huh?” Al asked without introduction. “I had a 1958 Chevy Bel-Air when I was in the academy—man, these old babies, they really—” 

“Did you find where we’re going yet?” Sam asked loudly, jerking his head at the backseat to make Al shut up and turn around. 

“Oh, you’re not alone—hey—that must be the kids he’s talking about!” Al grinned. 

Sam glared at him, grateful both boys had their heads down. He twitched his palms open against the wheel, as if to say, “So?” 

“Right…Sam, I gotta tell you, this may be your weirdest Leap yet. He’s hopping mad—just keeps demanding to know what we did with his boys…. I can’t get anything else out of him right now. Sorry, Sam—I’m working on it. Give us an hour or two and see if you can find a place where we can talk.” Al took a longing look at the dashboard, and running a hand over the upholstery, stepped out of the moving car. 

~*~*~*~ 

Sam drove toward the setting sun, keeping track of time. But the boys were getting hungry and more and more antsy. After ninety minutes, they all needed a break. Sam aimed for an off-ramp that promised a Denny’s and followed the signs to the restaurant. 

As he got out of the car, he felt a hard object against the small of his back. Reaching into his waistband, he felt the unmistakable imprint of a pistol. 

“Oh, boy,” he said again. 

Sammy and Dean climbed out and let off a little pent-up energy on the way to the door. “Triple Grand Slam, here I come!” Dean announced to the world at large. “Hey, Sammy—race you to that flagpole?” He pointed to the giant monolith out by the road, a good hundred yards from their side of the lot. 

Sammy grinned. As fast as he could he said, “Onetwothreego!” and sprinted away, Dean in hot pursuit. 

Sam took advantage of the respite to check his wallet. He drew it out carefully, avoiding the gun pressed to his spine, and flipped the leather bi-fold open. His borrowed face smiled back at him from an Ohio license. “Frank Peters,” it proclaimed him to be. Great! He knew who he was now, even if Al didn’t. A few credit card tops stuck out from pocket compartments: Visa, AmEx, nothing particular. He opened the billfold and eyeballed perhaps a hundred dollars, maybe a little more, in twenties and smaller bills. Definitely on vacation, he decided. And no mother around, so probably divorced. Recent, if so—he still wore the wedding ring. 

Armed with this new information, and feeling pretty pleased with himself, Sam waited for the two kids to run back to the door. Dean won, but Sammy was right on his heels. “Let’s go, Dad, I’m starving,” Dean told him, as if only eleven-year old boys ever got hungry between meals. In the boys’ haste to go in and eat, Sam forgot to leave the gun, or take the journal. 

They were seated by a plump waitress whose uniform did nothing for her, and whose orthopaedic shoes indicated a life on her feet. She smiled at Sammy in a grandmotherly way and offered them drinks or appetizers. Sam ordered coffee, Dean asked for Coke, and Sammy looked at his father. 

“Chocolate milk?” he asked. 

“Uh…yeah, sure,” Sam said, nodding at the waitress. “And water, please,” he added, knowing he’d want to wash down the coffee with something. 

Sam leafed through the menu, wondering whether “Frank” was a steak and eggs or a burger sort of guy. Somehow, he knew that the chef salad he craved would be right out—an obvious tipoff to the two boys who believed themselves his sons. He decided on the burger, just around the time their waitress returned. 

He let the boys order for themselves, pleasantly surprised that they seemed to have no trouble picking from the options. As promised, Dean ordered half the breakfast menu—eggs, pancakes, bacon, sausage, _and_ hash browns--and Sam mentally adjusted the kid’s age—probably more like twelve than eleven, and about to hit his growth spurt any day now. Sammy asked for chicken fingers but wanted bleu cheese instead of honey mustard, and added a side order baked potato. 

“Sammy, you’re such a freak,” Dean declared. 

“Me? I’m not the one eating a whole farm for dinner, Dean.” 

“Sam? Now’s a good time to excuse yourself,” Al said at his elbow. 

“You boys stay put,” Sam said in his most authoritative tone. “I’ll be back in a few minutes.” 

“Yes, sir!” both chorused with almost-military fervor, and Sam, surprised by the response, slid out of the booth to follow Al’s projection in search of the men’s room. 

“Any luck?” he asked under his breath. 

“Sam, I’m telling you, this one is making Ziggy tear his hair out. If…he had any hair. Jeez, Sam, way to pick the venue,” Al commented with a disdainful look at the surroundings. 

“Two kids, in Northern Indiana, not exactly gonna go to the Savoy, Al,” Sam said quietly, but testily. The Leap process may have made swiss cheese out of his memory, but the good thing was that he seemed to be retaining the tidbits he regained each time. So he knew the reason “Ziggy” had no hair was that he was not a person, but an elaborate, hyper-intelligent computer program. And the idea that this Leap might have the computer worried was not an encouraging prospect.

He pushed open the men’s room door and looked around. Urinals stood unused along the wall. The two cubicle stalls appeared empty. Good. “I made a little headway on my own, though. Let me tell you what’s going on for a change.” He leaned against the sink, because even after nearly a year of Leaping, it was disturbing to look at someone else’s reflection for too long. Besides, Al wasn’t visible in the mirror, anyway. “It’s 1991, probably about July 7th or 8th? And my name is Frank Peters. I’m on summer vacation with my sons Dean and Sam and we’re going camping in a place called Blue Earth. I figure he’s divorced, probably recently,” Sam held up his left hand, “and maybe there’s an accident we need to avoid. How’m I doing?” 

Al puffed his cigar and fixed narrowed eyes on Sam. “How’d you figure Frank Peters?” he asked. 

“Driver’s license,” Sam told him proudly. “See, I’m getting better at this, much as I hate to say it. You’re not the only source of information I can use.” 

“Hm,” said Al, not nearly as impressed as Sam had hoped. “Well, in this case, you’re off by a bit. Yes, those boys are this guy’s sons. But his name’s not Frank Peters.” Al pulled up his computer interface. “It’s John Winchester.” 

“What?” Sam frowned. “But, Al, look--” he fished the wallet out, brushing the gun again. “Wait--first tell me why a man on vacation with his kids is walking around with a .45?” 

“Yeah, Sam…that’s the thing. This guy…he’s nuts.” 

The restroom door swung open and a man came in, walked to the urinal. Sam immediately ran some water and combed wet fingers through his hair, washed his face and hands, stalled until the intruder left and he could ask Al: 

“What do you mean, ‘nuts?’” 

“I mean he’s crazy, Sam. Certifiable. Look, I got him to give me name, rank, and serial number. Gooshie ran it through Ziggy.” Al punched up the readout, courtesy of their programmer’s data and the supercomputer’s memory banks. “Winchester, John Ephraim. Born 1954, joined the Marines in ’72. He was a Corporal in the rifle corps and worked as a mechanic in a motor pool until his honorable discharge in 1976. With his experience as a mechanic he worked for and became part-owner of an auto repair shop in Lawrence, Kansas until…” Al’s eyebrows worked as he read ahead. He puffed his stoagie. “Oh, jeez, Sam, his wife, Mary, was killed in a house fire in 1983. Their son (also Sam, weird) was only six months old. Older brother Dean was four. Wow,” Al shook his head sympathetically. “After that…he drops off the grid, Sam, there’s nothing. But the kids…they have school transcripts from dozens of different places. Looks like he took them on the road with him.” Al pocketed his handheld. “Let me tell you, the John Winchester I have out here in the waiting room is completely nuts, Sam. I asked him why he’s traveling around the country with his kids, and he told me that he’s looking for his wife’s murderer.” 

Sam frowned. “Ziggy said she was killed in a house fire.” 

“That’s right!” Al poked the air with his cigar to emphasize the point. “But this Winchester says that something _caused_ that fire, something malignant, evil or something. Nuts, I tell ya. Sam…he swears that he hunts ghosts.” 

“Ghosts?” 

“Yeah, and he’s insisting that if he’s not brought back, something awful will happen to his kids.” 

“Al,” Sam said, shaking his head. “This doesn’t make any sense. If he’s John Winchester, then why do I have a license that says Frank Peters?” He pulled out the wallet. “And why the hell am I wearing a--” he broke off when the door opened again. 

Dean and Sam were standing in the doorway. Sam took one look at his father and rushed to a urinal. “You okay, Dad?” Dean asked. 

“Yeah, yeah, I’m okay. Just a little…tired,” Sam told him. 

“Sam, I’m gonna have Ziggy run Frank Peters through and see if it turns anything up,” Al said. “Meanwhile, just…just hang on until we figure out what you’re doing here.” 

“I’ll be back…at our table,” Sam said, half to Al and half to Dean, and left the men’s room hurriedly. He didn’t notice the two youngsters exchanging a confused look as he walked away. 

Back at his table, Sam pulled out the wallet again and gave it a thorough examination. Behind the Ohio license for “Frank Peters” there was an insurance card in the name “Jasper Hufnagle.” The Visa card belonged to “Edward Nugent,” the AmEx was for someone named “Sean Jenner,” and the MasterCard bore the name “Judah Botwin.” Sam shoved the cards back in as the kids turned up, almost at the same time as their food. At least, he reflected gratefully, the meal meant he didn’t have to talk right away. 

…Or not, he amended, when he noticed that both boys were watching him closely. Sammy said to Dean, “Ask him.” 

“You ask him,” Dean replied. 

“Ask me what?” Sam heard himself saying. 

Sammy glared at Dean, then back at his “father.” He leaned forward across the booth, and Sam leaned in as well, careful to avoid the plates. “Christo,” he said slowly. 

“Er…. What?” Sam asked. 

“Told ya,” Dean said, punching his brother in the arm. “Sammy thinks you’re possessed. I told him that’s stupid.” 

“Dean…” Sammy said through clenched teeth, eyes wide and rebuking. 

Sam gulped. He fiddled with his burger, just to have something to do with his hands. “I’m not possessed, S—uh—Sammy,” Sam said. 

“Are you sick?” Sammy asked. 

“No,” Sam said, smiling. “I’m fine. Don’t worry about me. Okay?” 

Sammy shrugged. “Okay,” he said, and picked up a chicken finger. 

“Mme Summff, nffng’s wrff wff Dad,” Dean said, mouth full of pancake. “Prffly juff nffs a breaff.” 

“Dean, don’t talk with your mouth full,” Sam said, horrified. 

Sammy punched Dean’s arm. 

“Boys, let’s just…eat,” Sam said. Amazingly, both of them became more serious about their meals, and the rivalry reached a truce. _Ex-Marine,_ Sam thought. Maybe that explained the crisp, military “Yessir” they had both given earlier. Maybe it explained why they seemed to follow his orders fairly quickly—way more quickly than he’d have expected of kids their ages. Sam began to think he might be able to handle two kids for…however long he had to be here. But it didn’t give him any more help as to the nature of his Leap. 

~*~*~*~ 

Al hadn’t reappeared before the waitress cleared the remains of their meal. Sam dug out cash for the tip, hesitating over whether to pay the whole bill in cash. Since his only alternative was using what was certainly a fake or stolen credit card, he plucked out two twenties before replacing the wallet. 

“Dad, want me to drive?” Dean asked when Sam gestured for them all to slide out of the booth. 

“What? No, of course not,” Sam said indignantly. 

“But you said you were tired.” 

“I’ll be fine,” Sam answered. He paid the bill at the register and shepherded the boys out to the lengthening shadows of the lot. 

Dean put his arm around Sammy’s shoulder as they walked a little ahead of Sam toward the black classic parked on the far end. Sammy wrapped his hand around Dean’s waist and Sam smiled at the sight. Until they started kicking each other in the butt. Then they separated almost at the same time and raced to the car. 

“Shotgun!” Dean called immediately. 

“Dean, why don’t you ride in the back with Sammy for now,” Sam said before either brother could start an argument. 

“Yes, sir,” came the response. Sam unlocked his door and opened it, feeling a wave of sun-warmed air escape from the interior. He reached in and back to unlock the rear door and the boys clambered in one after the other. Dean grabbed the map and scanned it quickly. “Do you want to stop outside of Gary tonight, Dad, or get past it?” 

“Gary’s fine,” Sam said quickly. He didn’t want to contemplate getting any closer to Chicago before he had more information. 

Sam found a hotel just on the outskirts of town, about two and a half hours later. He desperately wanted to get two rooms, but felt wrong about charging more than necessary on Winchester’s stolen credit cards. Besides, there was a bar just down the street from the motel, so he had a thought that perhaps he could go out later if Al was able to get back to him tonight. 

“Here,” he said, handing the room key to Dean. “Why don’t you and Sammy go…find something to watch on TV and I’ll move the car around to the room.” 

“Sure, Dad,” Dean said. “C’mon, Sammy,” he instructed and took off down the hall, his brother trailing him. 

Sam walked back to the car to park it on the side of the building near their room. He opened the trunk and began to figure out which bag was whose. There were two army-issue duffel bags and two black gym bags, along with an assortment of cassettes, empty paper coffee cups, bottles of motor oil, and a small toolbox. One duffel turned out to have clean clothes for himself; the other was decidedly laundry. It couldn’t have been anything else, the way it was covered in dirt and reeking of smoke. Odd, because he didn’t have any cigarettes, so he didn’t think John Winchester smoked. The two gym bags had the boys’ clothes. Sam pulled the three clothing bags out and pushed the laundry bag up against the back of the trunk. Then he noticed that there was a piece of paper sticking up out of the carpeted bottom of the trunk. Sam set down the bags and picked at the paper. It slid out of a crack in the upholstery. Sam ran his hand around the crack. A false bottom? He lifted up and jumped back with a surprised cry. 

“What the….” Sam leaned over again and lifted up the false bottom slowly. The sight before him hadn’t changed. An array of weapons filled the box set into the trunk. Shotguns, handguns, and a variety of bladed weapons nestled next to more innocuous but less self-explanatory items, including vials of liquid, a rosary and crucifix, amulets of unclear origin, and even what appeared to be a dreamcatcher. There were also other mundane objects, like a spade, a crowbar, half a bag of rock salt, and a small leather roll that revealed a set of lockpick tools. 

“Al, what the heck have I Leaped into?” Sam breathed. He remembered the journal in the front seat. Shutting the false bottom and the trunk, Sam shouldered the bags and opened up the passenger seat. He pulled the journal out and tucked it under his arm while he locked up the car and went back inside. 

The boys were camped on the bed furthest from the door. They had turned on the TV and were watching “MacGyver” when Sam knocked. Dean opened the door for him and immediately took the bags from him. 

“Can I have the keys, Dad? Sammy forgot his backpack.” 

“Uh…yeah,” Sam said distractedly. He dug the car keys out of his jacket pocket. This part seemed fairly low-key, he figured. Surely Al would have something for him by morning. 

Sam settled himself on the other bed and opened up the journal. He leafed through the pages, jumping around at first, and slowly becoming absorbed in the intimacies of John Winchester’s notes and reflections. He barely noticed when Dean supervised Sammy brushing his teeth and taking a shower before bed. 

“Dad?” Dean appeared at his elbow. “It’s time for Sammy to go to bed.” 

“O—oh,” Sam said, brain going into third gear. “Well…it’s summer. You two can stay up a little later if you want.” 

Dean’s eyes flicked down to the journal in Sam’s lap and back up to his face. He looked about to say something, but before he formed the words, the air behind him shimmered and Al stepped through, dressed in a typically outrageous lime green jacket and yellow trousers. “Sam, we gotta talk,” he said as he came into the room. 

“I’m going out for a little while,” Sam said to Dean. He stood up and grabbed his coat. 

“What is it, Dad?” Dean asked. 

“Just…stay here, okay?” Sam confirmed. He grabbed the room key on his way out the door. “What’s going on, Al?” Sam muttered as he walked down the hall, one finger still marking his place in what was probably the most unusual reading he’d done since the research for his third dissertation. 

“Sam, I’m telling you, this Winchester…he’s—” 

“Nuts?” Sam whispered. He walked out the door toward the Impala. When he put his hand in the jacket pocket for the keys, he came up empty. Dean must have set them down. Unable to sit inside it for privacy, Sam leaned against the trunk. “Do you know what’s inside here?” he asked. 

“Yeah, uh, I got him to tell me what he’s working on…. He says he was driving the kids to a friend’s place in Blue—” 

“Blue Earth, Minnesota,” Sam interrupted. “I got Dean to play navigator so I could find out where we were going. Al, why do I get the feeling I’m getting as much information out of Dean as you are out of John?” 

“Hey, Sam, I’m trying, okay?” Al shot back. “This Winchester is a handful. Fake licenses, fake credit card trails, no steady address, not a lot to get our hands on…. Anyway, he said this friend, Jim Murphy, sometimes lets Sammy and Dean stay, when he’s got, and I quote, a ‘dangerous hunt.’” 

“Hunt…Dean asked…when we were leaving just now, he asked if it was a hunt. What does that mean? Does he actually hunt ghosts and stuff?” 

“Apparently, yeah, Sam. If you can believe that.” 

“No, Al, I don’t believe it. I mean…scientifically, it’s just not possible.” 

“Well, Sam, now, honestly. That’s never been proven. The point is that whether we believe it or not, John Winchester certainly believes it.” 

Sam sighed. “Okay…so what’s going to happen? Is someone going to lock him up in an insane asylum?” 

Al’s eyebrows worked toward his hairline and then back down toward the bridge of his nose. “Uh, not this time. Ziggy’s still having a lot of trouble figuring that out. Right now there’s a…62% probability that Dean and Sam will go into protective custody, but we’re not sure why. I’m trying to get Winchester to tell us more about what’s going on, but he’s not very forthcoming.” 

“Imagine that,” Sam muttered. “Al,” Sam brought up the journal. “Can Ziggy get a look at some of these pages? It’s simply incredible stuff. I mean this guy really believes in ghosts and demons and….” He leafed through to a page about three before the one he’d been reading. “Look. Reapers.” He held up the journal so Al could see it then flipped to another page. “Poltergeists. Banshees. I mean…where did he dig up this information?” 

“Hey, Sam, that gives me an idea. Lemme go back and talk to him a little more. Maybe I can figure out what his next move would have been, if…you know…if he’d been here.” Al made a little switching motion with his hands to indicate what he meant. 

“Great,” Sam sighed. “Meanwhile, Al, what do I do with these kids?” 

Al squinted in thought. “Yeah, uh…about that. He said…well, I won’t go into what he actually _said_ , but he seemed to think that his sons would be able to tell that you’re not him.” 

“I think he’s right,” Sam said with a grimace. “Did he say what to do about it?” 

“He said, ‘Don’t let them kill you.’” 

Sam shook his head sadly. “Thanks,” he said, spreading his arms in helplessness.


	2. Chapter 2

Sam let himself back into the room with some trepidation. The TV was on, volume low, but all the lights except the bathroom were off. 

“Dad?” Dean called softly. As Sam walked forward, he caught a glint of something metal in Dean’s hand. Only when Dean shifted, aiming up in relief, did Sam realize it was a gun. 

“Jesus!” Sam hissed. “What are you doing? That could have gone off—you could have hurt someone.” 

Dean reacted as if Sam had hit him. “The safety’s on,” he offered. “You left your keys,” he continued, though whether to deflect Sam’s rebuke or out of a genuine desire to be helpful, Sam couldn’t tell, “but you were gone a while. Dad? Are you sure you’re okay?” 

Sam sat on the bed heavily. He had to use the one closest to the bathroom; the covers of the other bed were arranged over a small lump with a mess of dark curls. He was still getting his breathing back after the shock of seeing a twelve-year-old with a pistol. “Yeah....” 

“’Cause if there’s something you don’t want Sammy to know…” Dean jumped in after Sam’s pause. 

“No, no, nothing like that, uh, son,” Sam assured him quickly. “I’m okay. Just give me that before someone gets hurt….” He held his hand out for the gun. Dean checked the safety, twisted the grip in his palm, and held it out, hilt-first, expertly. But his eyes gleamed in the bathroom light, and Sam could see the distrust and hurt in them. “Uh…shouldn’t you be getting to bed?” he asked. 

Dean nodded solemnly and circled the bed to go into the bathroom. Sam put the gun under his pillow, where it would make him nervous all night, but it was better than leaving it on the bedside table where either of the boys—especially Sammy—could pick it up easily. He added the .45 from his waistband. “Gonna be like the princess and the pea,” he muttered to himself. 

A tight stream of cold water hit him on the back of his head. “Hey!” he cried. 

“That’s holy water, you demonic son of a bitch!” Dean shouted. “Now, Sammy, quick—get away from him!” Sammy jumped up at his brother’s command. 

The room erupted in noise and motion. Sam lurched to his feet, questioning Dean’s actions for the second time in five minutes. Sammy leaped out of bed and hustled around the room to shelter behind Dean. Dean tossed his water gun aside and dove under the pillows for the pistols, all the while shouting for Sammy to get clear. He handed off one of the pistols, clicked the safety off the other, and trained it on Sam over Sam’s protests. 

“I don’t know what you are, but you’re not my father,” Dean announced. 

“Dean, that’s—” Sam ventured. 

“Nu-uh,” Dean said firmly, shaking his head. He gestured to the bed and Sam sank onto it, hands up. “Dad would never have taken the gun. This time of night, and alone with Sammy? He’d have freaked out if I _didn’t_ have the gun primed and ready. That was the last test, and you failed it bigtime. Sammy figured it out way back at the restaurant. But I wasn’t sure until I told you it was his bedtime.” 

Sam sighed. It was probably easier to give up than try to play John Winchester a moment longer. As long as Dean didn’t shoot him. “He wouldn’t have let you stay up?” 

Dean shook his head, mouth twisting in a wry, sad smile. Sammy spoke up. “He never cares whether we’ve got school or not. He never gives us bedtimes. But it was lotsa things.” He was holding the smaller pistol two-handed. It looked heavy in his hands, but his arms were steady. 

“Yeah, like the way you acted when I asked if you wanted me to drive.” Dean picked up from his brother seamlessly. 

“And leaving the keys here. And the way you were at dinner,” Sammy continued. He looked up at Dean and smiled. “Dean decided to set the bedtime trap for you when we got in here alone, but then you went out so fast we thought maybe you were running away.” 

“But then you left the keys, and you didn’t come back for them,” Dean said. 

“So you filled up a water pistol and put it in the bathroom? Why, when you had regular guns?” 

“Holy water,” they both said at once. “You stepped over the salt lines—” Sam looked over at the door as Dean explained; he hadn’t even noticed—“but we wanted to be certain you weren’t a demon.” 

Sammy screwed his face up at Dean. “Yeah, but Dean, if he’s not a demon, an’ he’s not attacking us….What _are_ you?” 

“I’m…not a what,” Sam said wearily. “But you’re right: I’m not John Winchester. My name’s Sam Beckett. I’m a scientist.” He looked back at the two kids, both still aiming their firearms directly at him. “Could you, uh, maybe put the guns down?” 

The boys looked at each other. They seemed to be communicating telepathically. Dean shrugged a shoulder at Sammy, who released the hammer on his pistol and tucked it into the back of his pajama pant waistband. Dean put the safety on his gun, but kept it in his hand, crossing his arms. “Your name’s Sam?” Sammy asked. 

Sam nodded. 

“And you just happen to look exactly like our Dad?” Dean said, full of doubt. 

“No. I actually don’t look a thing like your Dad,” Sam explained. “I just…we’ve switched bodies. Temporarily,” he added hastily. 

For a moment, he thought they were going to freak out on him, but they surprised him again. “Like in _Freaky Friday_?” Sammy asked. 

“Uh…I don’t know,” Sam told him. 

“Temporarily?” Dean asked. “So…he’s in your body? Where?” 

“Yes,” Sam said. “I’m not supposed to tell you about it, though. It’s classified.” 

“Like an Area 51 thing,” Dean surmised. 

“Uh…yeah.” 

“But…he’s okay? Right?” Sammy asked. 

“Oh, yeah, yeah, he’s perfectly safe. He’s with the people running the experiment.” Sam’s mind was racing to catch up. He couldn’t tell them he was from the future. He couldn’t tell them about the project, or that he went about restoring events in people’s lives. Most of all, he certainly couldn’t tell them that he had no control over the timing of the body-swapping effects of the Leap. 

“And you said you could switch back, right?” Dean asked. 

Sam nodded. “I always have,” he said. 

“Okay, so switch back,” Sammy ordered. 

Dean snorted. “Sammy, when in our lives is it that simple?” Sammy made a face at his brother by widening his eyes a bit and puffing out cheeks over lips locked across his teeth. Then, as if conceding defeat, he sighed. 

“I don’t get it: Why our Dad? Why switch in the first place?” Dean demanded. 

Sam could only shrug. “Yeah… that’s complicated. And I wish I could tell you.” He took a deep breath while making a decision. “The fact is that I’ve been doing this for a while, and usually when I Leap—that’s what we call it—into someone who’s about to…to make a mistake. If I can fix what’s about to go wrong, then I Leap out and the other person…your father, in this case…comes back.” 

“What kind of mistake?” Sammy asked, at the same time that Dean said, “What if you don’t fix it right?” 

_Both very good questions_ , Sam agreed silently. “The problem is that I never know, coming in, what the mistake is going to be,” he said aloud. “Sometimes it’s that they’re about to do something life-changing, like… like get married.” Both boys wrinkled their noses at this prospect. “But sometimes it’s that they aren’t going to get married and they were supposed t—uh,” he stopped himself quickly. “And sometimes it’s because they’re going to get hurt if someone else doesn’t make them…go a different way. I have a…liaison, of sorts, who helps me figure out the most probable scenarios.” 

Sammy looked at Dean. “He’s from the future.” 

“What? No, that’s….” Sam protested. But Sammy shot him a baleful glance. 

“You said ‘supposed to.’ That means you have to know what they did, which means they already did it. And how do you talk to your liaison, on the phone? Or is he a hologram like on _Star Trek_?” 

Sam grimaced. Sammy was much smarter than he’d initially thought. Dean too, though not in the same way. He’d have to be very, very careful. 

“Well, let’s just say it’s classified.” 

“Okay,” Dean insisted, returning again to the practical, “So…Dad’s about to do something wrong, because Spaceman Spiff here says so. Like what? He gets busted up pretty good a lot of the time. Like how wrong are we talking here?” 

Sam hesitated again. How much should he tell them? The pause was enough for them to put together the pieces, though. 

“Bad enough that we don’t stay together?” Dean asked, and Sammy said, overlapping, “Is he going to die?” 

Sam sighed. He wished he could keep the confirmation out of his face, but it was no use. “I’m sorry. It’s just that, in your case, I don’t have a lot of information. Apart from your school records, you’re pretty hard to keep track of.” 

This made Dean grin. “Our dad’s the best at flying under the radar,” he said proudly. 

Sammy was more interested in the probability of their father’s death. “If it’s something that dangerous, then it’s gotta be a hunt. And that’s easy to fix! Just don’t go.” 

“He can’t do that, Sammy. If he doesn’t go, other people will die!” 

“Wait,” Sam said, holding up a hand. “Hunting…you mean the ghost thing? You actually believe that your father hunts…ghosts?” 

“He does,” Dean shot back. “Hunt them, I mean.” 

“But…they’re not real,” Sam said gently. 

“Yes they are,” Dean insisted. “We’ve seen them.” Sammy was nodding energetically. 

“You, too?” Sam asked. 

“Last year our dad killed a werewolf,” the little boy told him. 

Dean took up the thread again. “And about a year before that, he hunted a wendigo in Seney, with a friend of his. He didn’t take us along on that one, though.” 

“Well, technically, he didn’t take us on the werewolf hunt, either, Dean; _you_ said we’d find it quicker if—” 

“ _Okay_ , Sammy,” Dean interrupted with a bright, false smile and a heavy hand on his brother’s shoulder. “No need to bother the nice man with details.” He fixed the manic smile on Sammy, who returned it with a face full of narrowed eyes and pinched lips. On someone older than eight, it could have either looked quite bitchy, or very quelling. On the youngster, it simply looked petulant. After a moment’s silence, during which Sam was certain the brothers were mind-melding again, Sammy spoke. 

“My point is, if what goes wrong is hunting, he could just ask someone else to go, Dean. Like, maybe Mr. Singer. Or Pastor Jim.” 

“Jim–you, uh, I mean, _we_ were on our way there, anyway, right?” Sam offered. Perhaps the kid’s plan would help them all out. 

But Dean raked his eyes over Sam, biting his lip, and when he shook his head, he said to his brother with finality: “No. No way. We’re not bringing them in, because then they’ll know something’s wrong. He won’t be able to fool them. They’ll want to exorcise him, or worse. Huh-uh.” 

“Come to think of it, Dean, that might not be a bad idea,” Sam said. “I mean, these friends of your father’s…they’re bound to have experience and—” 

“No, Dean’s right,” Sammy said, only half-sullen at having to admit it. “They won’t know what to do with something like this.” He crossed his arms in a gesture remarkably like his older brother’s. “Nope, whatever it is,” he said through a sigh, “We’ll just have to hunt it for him.” 

~*~*~*~ 

Sam could feel his jaw thud open. “What?! No! You’re just kids,” he protested. 

His bewildered outburst did nothing to deter them. Both boys were talking to each other, paying him no attention. Dean was talking about making sure the weapons were in good order, and stopping to restock their ammo on the way. Sammy, on the other hand, buzzed with ideas about picking up local and regional newspapers to scan them for the job that was most likely to represent the threat which Sam’s presence was meant to forestall. Between the two of them, they seemed prepared to meet the devil himself head-on. 

“Wait! Boys!” Sam barked. Both of them stopped talking mid-sentence to swivel their heads toward him. 

“Yes, sir?” they said together. Then Dean smirked, and Sammy grinned, and Sam realized why. He must have sounded like their father, at least enough to inspire the reaction. Whatever the reason, he had them focused and pressed his advantage. 

“You honestly can’t think that you can just go out and…and…do,” he supplied lamely, “whatever it is that you think your father does on these, um, hunts. You’re going to get hurt.” 

“Not if we’re careful,” Dean said confidently. “Can’t you just ask Dad what he was going to hunt next? He must have had some idea. He can tell us where it is and then I’ll go get the thing.” 

“We’ll go get the thing,” Sammy corrected. 

Dean grimaced. “Sammy will back me up while I go get the thing.” He regarded Sam with some skepticism. “Incidentally, do you even know how to shoot?” 

Sam scissored his hands through the air in front of him. “Hold it, okay, just hang on a minute!” he said. “I don’t care what you say, I’m not letting you two go and hunt something that’s apparently bad enough to put your father in serious danger. But,” he continued quickly over Dean’s attempted argument, “I do think you have a good suggestion about seeing what help your dad can offer. For the time being,” he pressed, deflecting Sammy’s question before he could form it, “it’s been a long day, and we should all get some sleep. We can pick this up in the morning. Okay?” 

Dean and Sammy agreed, though Sam believed it was grudgingly. Sam could not get them to give up their pistols, but he did at least convince Dean not to sleep with one of the guns under his mattress. Dean and Sammy eventually settled in one of the beds, leaving Sam the second, and they turned out the lights. 

The next morning, Sam came awake to find Al puffing holographic smoke into his face. “Sam, are you completely out of your mind?” he demanded. 

Sam grunted and swung his legs out of bed. The boys were still asleep – at least, he assumed so. All that appeared of Sammy was a tuft of black hair and a lump under the covers. Dean was curled around the lump, half on his stomach, with one foot sticking out and his mouth half open on the pillow. So if they were faking, they were doing very well at it. 

“What did you want me to do, Al?” Sam hissed as he made for the bathroom. “John was right; his kids weren’t fooled. I had to tell them something.” 

“Yeah, but now they know you’re from the future!” Unlike Sam, Al was under no obligation to whisper. 

“I never confirmed that,” Sam said as forcefully as he could, considering the sleeping kids. “Anyway, the whole family seems pretty receptive to the out-of-the-ordinary. You said yourself, Al, that whether or not these things are real, John Winchester believes they are. He’ll go hunting for them whether they exist or not.” 

“Fine,” Al conceded angrily, “but now you’ve got those two kids all revved up to go get themselves killed instead.” He stretched his neck from side to side, as if working out a kink. “Besides…Ziggy’s been running some numbers and…Winchester may have some evidence on his side.” 

“What, evidence of ghosts?” Sam queried. “Al, tell me you’re kidding.” 

Al smacked his lips. “Wish I were. Winchester gave Gooshie a bunch of dates and places, which he programmed into Ziggy…. Fact is, in every case, before he arrived in the area, people were getting hurt. Dying. After he leaves, the deaths stop.” 

Sam sank onto the toilet seat. “I don’t believe it.” 

“Yeah, it’s seriously wacko. But Ziggy’s numbers don’t lie, and it looks like there’s a correlation. For whatever reason, whatever this Winchester guy is doing, it works.” 

“Okay,” Sam said, pinching the bridge of his nose, “have you got anything more about where he was headed? What he was planning?” 

“Interesting you should ask,” Al answered. “He was between jobs, but Gooshie pulled newspapers from this week—well, not _this_ week, where I am—you know— _this_ week, where you are—and let Winchester read them. He picked a couple possible jobs. Ziggy tested them against his probability matrix and….” Al pulled out the handheld and punched its buttons. When it finished its multi-tonal beeping, he squinted at the screen. “Minnewaukan, North Dakota,” he announced. 

Sam waited. When it was clear that Al wanted prompting, he said: “What about it?” 

Al continued to futz with the handheld. “According to the news article, there had been some disturbing incidents at the Minnewaukan Cemetery just outside of town. The town is on the western edge of Devil’s Lake, and there was some speculation that a drought was causing the soil around the lake to crack.” 

“What does that have to do with the cemetery?” Sam asked. 

Al skimmed the screen. “Well, even though the cemetery is pretty far from the lake, the ground there is staying dry. Two sinkholes in the past month have opened up, swallowing up the people who happened to be walking by at the time. The groundskeepers are watering it every day, but it’s still drought conditions. Winchester said he thought it sounded like, and I quote, ‘his kind of thing.’” 

“And what does Ziggy say?” 

“Ziggy says that this job has an 87% probability of resulting in Winchester’s death, Sam. The only other article he found interesting was about a house in Terre Haute that, uh, laughs when its owners have sex.” Al smirked and took a puff of his cigar in a way Sam found altogether discomfiting. “Ziggy gave that one a 40% likelihood of him even getting injured. But it makes you wonder: What kind of sex—” 

“Yeah, I can see why he wouldn’t take two kids into a situation like that,” Sam said to cut Al off. In the bathroom mirror, John Winchester’s rugged face darkened with Sam’s blush. Sam bustled around with a toothbrush, angry at himself for letting Al get to him. “Okay, so, does he have any idea what’s going on in Devil’s Lake?” 

Al shook his head and shrugged. “He couldn’t say, but we’re giving him what we can to help him figure that out. For now, you’d better head that way; I’ll let you know his recommendations as soon as we’ve got them.” Al watched Sam drag the toothbrush across his teeth. “How are you doing with them, anyway?” he asked, inclining his head toward the closed bathroom door. 

Sam spat. “As of last night, I think we’ve established a rapport,” he said stiffly. “I just don’t know how I’m going to keep them out—” 

Just then, Dean banged on the bathroom door. “Dr. Beckett? Sammy needs to, uh—” 

“Dean! Cut it out, I said I’m fine,” Sammy’s slightly whiney, high-pitched voice interrupted. 

Al smirked again, but this time it was full of amused mockery. “Yeah, you’ve really got a handle on them, Sam. I’ll leave you to it. _Dad,_ ” he added as the wallpaper shimmered when he stepped through the portal. The bathroom décor seamed itself up a second later as the doorway shut. 

Sam got them all dressed and packed – or more accurately, _Dean_ got himself and Sammy dressed and packed – and gave Dean the car keys. “Here, you load up and I’ll check out,” he told the youngster. 

He was less than thrilled to find the Impala pulled around to the front of the motel when he left the office, engine running and Dean behind the wheel. Dean sidled across the bench seat to shotgun position as Sam climbed in on the driver’s side. He grinned at Sam as if to challenge him into saying anything. 

“Want some music or something?” Dean asked as they pulled out. 

“No, thanks,” Sam answered. “And by the way, don’t drive the car anymore. You’re only twelve.” 

Dean crossed his arms. “Dude, I’ve been driving on my own since I was nine. Dad started teaching me a couple years before that.” 

“Slow learner?” Sam heard himself scoff. Ever since Al’s question, it had struck Sam that Dean really was more-or-less in charge, and it rankled him. He was the adult, after all. Though too late, it occurred to him that verbal sparring was not exactly the most mature way to handle the pre-teen. 

To his surprise, though, Dean wilted a bit and leaned against the window. From the back, Sammy crowed, “It’s not that; Dean couldn’t reach the pedals until he was nine.” 

Dean flushed deep red. Sam squinted into the morning light as they swung around to a McDonald’s for breakfast. 

After what could only loosely be called a meal, Sam got them back on the highway, ignoring Dean’s clear impatience with his driving. Sammy was in the back, absorbed in his book, but Sam could feel the two boys checking on each other. Suddenly he got the distinct impression that Dean’s choice to sit up front was not so much for the privilege as to give him a better vantage point to keep an eye on Sam. The sensation was not unlike the scrutiny he used to receive as Dr. Ang’s lab assistant back in his third doctoral program, and Sam enjoyed it even less. 

Still, he trusted the kid to get them to Minnewaukan via the endless supply of maps that seemed to live under the passenger side of the bench. Dean diverted them once, stopping in response to a billboard advertising Bait and Ammo. He wrote out a shopping list, handed it to Sam, and said, “Just act cool about it. Don’t talk too much. Just hand the clerk the list and then pay for it. I’ll answer any questions. Okay?” 

Sam accepted the list, but touched Dean lightly on his shoulder to keep him getting out. He opened with: “Listen, I’m not an idiot. I’m a pretty smart guy, actually,” smiling in what he hoped looked like an approachable way. 

Dean grimaced. “Please, please do not smile at me like that when you’re wearing Dad’s face,” he said. “It’s just wrong.” 

Sam refused to be deflected. “I’m saying, Dean, that I may be a little out of my element, but you’d be surprised what I’ve done. You don’t need to act like, uh, Indiana James,” he groped for the character’s name. 

Dean snorted. “Jones, dude. Indiana Jones. Jeez. You don’t want me to think you’re an alien? This is why I’m handling the lying.” He tried to get out again, but Sam held his jacket. 

“Dean. I’m trying to be patient, here. You seem to be living under pretty extraordinary circumstances, and I get that. But you’re still only twelve years old, and I’m the adult. Now, if we are going to work together to bring your dad back, there are some things you’re just going to have to let me do.” 

Dean sobered, sighing. He shot a glance back at Sammy, who nodded encouragingly. “Look, Dr. Beckett, I get it,” Dean said, and if possible, he seemed even more mature, even more in charge, than when he’d been acting cocky. “Trust me, when we’re in there?” He pointed to the store. “No one will suspect a thing. And I know you’re a grown-up and you think you’ve seen things in this experiment of yours, maybe even done things most people don’t get to do. But unless you can tell me you’ve done the full Navy Seal training with a little Ghostbusters on the side, you can’t expect to do the kinds of things my dad does before he’s even had his Wheaties.” He sounded so earnest that Sam couldn’t argue. “Heck, most people would have bought themselves a ticket to the cuckoo’s nest over what my dad’s destroyed. And no offense, but even if you’ve got someone telling you stuff about the future, you probably aren’t as prepared to face this stuff as…as we are,” Dean slid his eyes sideways to include his brother. 

“Dean,” Sam said in his most reasonable tone, “I agree with you that I’m going to need your help to figure this out, okay?” Sam waited for acknowledgement, trying to remember the tiny amount of mutual gains bargaining theory they’d covered in the Psychology and Negotiation Tactics elective he’d taken years ago. Or maybe years from now. There was something about trust building through…giving in on something to get something in return. If he remembered correctly, which was admittedly touch-and-go with the Leaping. But he must have done something right, because Dean nodded, so Sam continued. 

“I’m going to rely on you and Sammy for help, but I don’t think it’s going to serve any of us, or your dad, if either of you get hurt. Am I right?” Step two was giving the other side a sense of control; it was coming back to him. 

Dean rubbed his chin with the side of his finger. “Yeah,” he conceded. “I guess he’d be pretty pis--um, ticked off if we went hunting without him. If something happened to us.” 

“I know he would,” Sam confirmed. “So. I’ll make a deal with you. I’ll clear any hunt-related plan with you, if you let me handle the normal stuff. Like driving, and talking to other adults, and stuff like that. Okay?” 

Dean sighed closed-mouthed, jaw set. His eyes sought Sammy again, who nodded back at him with trusting eyes. “Okay,” he agreed. “But don’t let him talk you into getting anything teflon coated; they’re completely useless to us.” 

~*~*~*~ 

They managed to come away with everything on Dean’s list and for a reasonable price, Sam thought. He had no idea what ammunitions cost in 1991, but he’d made small talk with the shopkeeper to gain a little trust. When he mentioned, subtly and to his mind, rather unaffectedly, how much easier it was to keep the boys fed, now that they’d both taken a genuine interest in buck hunting, he noticed the guy look at Dean’s slim frame. When he rang up the bill, he “accidentally on purpose” left off the two skinning knives Dean had listed. 

It was a little difficult not to overdo the performance, what with Dean beaming up at him as if he were Santa Claus and Christmas had come early, but he put a paternal arm around the boy’s shoulder and Dean did not pull away. Sammy came up the aisle and ducked under Sam’s other arm to help carry the boxes of shells while Dean took the bag with the other supplies and Sam stowed the fake credit card and receipt in his wallet. The owner saw them out with a hearty, “Come on back anytime,” and they escaped. 

“That wasn’t so bad, was it?” Sam asked on the way back to the car, noting that Dean had shied away from him as soon as they were out the door’s line of sight. 

“You’re not too terrible at this,” the young man conceded. Sam began to bristle, but realized before he replied that Dean was hiding a smirk. 

“Not too terrible?” Sam asked, with humour instead of the irritation he had been about to unleash. “Careful there, Dean, don’t want to swell my head with praise or anything.” 

Sam took care not to look at Dean as he said this, but from the corner of his eye he was rewarded with a slow smile. 

“Yeah, well, keep your head in the game, Beckett,” Dean growled. Sam could tell without asking this was a frank imitation of John Winchester. “We’ve got a lot of miles to put in and a job to do on the other end.” 

As they drove, Sam discussed what Al had told him, and Sammy found the news articles in the copies of the Grand Forks and Bismarck papers and read them over for anything they could use to begin the investigation. Sam refused to call it a hunt until they knew for sure there was something there _to_ hunt. He asked the boys what they knew about how their father usually operated, and they volunteered what they knew. Surprisingly, it wasn’t much. 

“He doesn’t really take us along a lot. We’re in school,” Sammy said evenly. 

“Yeah, or he tells us we’re too young,” Dean said, with a little more heat. 

“He usually hits the local library,” Sammy continued, ignoring Dean’s complaint, “to see if there’s any obvious history associated with the site where things are happening. He’ll talk to the families or neighbours of the victims and find out if they noticed anything weird before the, um, incidents.” 

“So, he just walks up and starts asking questions?” 

Dean snorted. “Of course not. Usually he pretends to be an agent, maybe a reporter. Depends on the situation.” He reached forward, in the shotgun seat this time because Sammy wanted to be able to spread out his research in the back, and pulled a box out of the glove compartment. He sifted through a number of plastic-coated ID badges, each one emblazoned with a different agency—and, Sam noticed when he chanced a look down—different names. 

“Sammy, does the article say there’d been any construction or anything in the area?” Dean called back. 

“Um…” Sammy dipped his head over the newspaper. “No, but the victims were each visiting graves in a single section of the cemetery…. And there’s this.” He flipped to a different section of the paper. “Developers in Devil’s Lake are trying to open up a drainage basin for the military base nearby.” 

Dean grinned. “No problem, then.” He withdrew a badge adorned with the “Department of Defense” emblem on it.


	3. Chapter 3

“Darnit, Dean, I can’t go in there with a twelve-year-old kid pretending to be from the DoD!” Sam said for probably the fifth time.

“You can’t go in there alone!” Dean insisted. “You won’t know what to ask.”

“Here,” Sammy offered from the desk in their motel room. He held out a composition book. “I wrote questions down for you.”

“Sammy,” Dean sighed, “that book has your name and a dinosaur sticker on the cover.”

Sammy shrugged. “So tear out the pages,” he said to Sam, ignoring Dean. Something in the kid’s expression made Sam smile back at him reassuringly. 

“Thanks,” Sam said and accepted the black and white notebook. He scanned the pages, written out in neat, little-kid block lettering. They were pretty good, like the one where he wanted to know about any history of drought-induced sinkholes opening up elsewhere in the area (with a carefully inscribed note about a cave-in in Minnewaukan a few years ago). Occasionally there was one that gave away Sammy’s youth. Sam thought perhaps asking, “Have there been any sightings of a ‘Loch Ness’ sort of monster in the lake?” might draw an unwanted reaction. “Why don’t I just transfer them to something else, so they’re in my own handwriting?” he asked, searching for middle ground between the two.

Dean crossed his arms and slumped on the bed. “I still say you should have some backup.”

“I will,” Sam told him confidently. And he would. As soon as Al showed up again. Sam figured if anyone could feed him the bluffs he’d need to get through this, it was his very own Rear Admiral. Meanwhile, re-writing the questions bought him a little time to wait.

When Al did appear, it was with a list of questions frighteningly similar to the ones Sam had just copied down. “Winchester said there’s a DoD badge in the…. You’ve got it,” Al remarked when Sam held it up before clipping it onto his jacket.

They left the boys at a motel down the road and Sam drove to the National Guard training base, after carefully shaving and cleaning himself up. Parroting Al’s speech, he was waved through to the command post, where he drilled his way down to the engineering corps in charge of the drainage project.

The men there didn’t have a lot to tell him. They were fighting with Ramsey County over whether the drainage would negatively impact the area. They’d heard about the sinkholes, but there was no way the drought in Minnewaukan and the overflow from the lake could be connected.

“The papers like to say there’s drought everywhere, but it’s just not so,” Lieutenant Keegan said, munching on a wad of tobacco. “This drainage project is necessary – the lake’s just about overflowing its banks in places.”

“Really?” Sam’s eyebrows lifted, sensing a lead. “Do you have any geological surveys of the water tables in the area? Benson County has been irrigating pretty heavily; I wonder if their water is draining right out of their ground and into the lake.”

Keegan complied happily enough, but the water table surveys were no real use. Sam stared at the elevation lines as if by looking at them long enough, he could make them make sense. Even with Al reading off Ziggy’s interpretation of the maps, they didn’t point to a natural solution. Sam thanked the Lieutenant for his time and hustled himself out, Al keeping pace the whole time with a stream of instructions on how to blend in on a military base.

“Just walk like you know exactly where you’re going… left, Sam. Sam, left!” Sam corrected his course just in time to avoid a door opening, but not the person who came through it. A pert sergeant in regulation dress brown skirt and short-sleeved blouse clicked into the hallway on solid-looking pumps. The open door obscured Sam from her view, and by the time he had sidestepped the steel, she had already executed a tight left turn right into him. Her lunch tray flipped up into her shirt, spilling fries, ketchup, and coffee into the hallway, and pressing what looked like tuna on rye into her chest.

“Oh, no!” she cried, dropping the tray and surveying the mess now decorating her uniform and the floor.

“Sorry!” Sam sputtered, fumbling for the napkins that hadn’t been soaked with coffee and holding them out to her. “I tried to dodge but….”

“I didn’t see you…” she offered. “Oh, Christ, it’s all over.”

“Here, let me um….” Sam scooped up the fries back onto the tray when the SFC accepted the napkins and tried to scoop some of the mayonnaise off her tie. 

“Sam, this is not helpful,” Al admonished. Sam ignored him.

“I’ll get a corpsman to mop the hall,” she muttered. “Dammit!” She picked up the half-empty coffee cup and dropped it onto the tray. She still hadn’t really looked at him, but amongst the flurry, Sam had taken in her slim frame, a good bit shorter than he was, her black hair tied in a bun, and her heart-shaped face with its somewhat tanned skin.

“I should replace your lunch at least,” Sam offered. “And pay your cleaning bill. Sergeant…?”

“Davis,” she offered absently. “That’s kind of you, but it’s my own fault, really….”

“No, I saw the door, I just didn’t expect you to zig when I zagged,” Sam said with a smile.

She finally looked up, seeing Sam for the first time. Or rather, seeing John for the first time, and she clearly liked what she saw, but then composed herself quickly, professionally, militarily. There was something a little odd about her face, apart from the closed expression. Sam could see himself in the reflection from her large, dark eyes.

“Sam,” Al interjected, “ordinarily I’d say take what life offers you, but this time I gotta tell ya you’re better off getting out while no one suspects anything.”

“Really, it’s all right,” she said feebly, unaware of speaking over Al’s rant. “Agent…Orange?” she could barely keep her voice from cracking. “Seriously? That’s your name?”

Sam grimaced. Either Winchester had a horrid sense of humor or he’d let Dean put the name on the ID. “Fraid so. And yeah, I get the jokes all the time.”

Sam waited while SFC Davis ducked back inside the door to the mess hall and alerted someone to the need for cleanup. “What brings the DoD to Devil’s Lake? If you don’t mind my asking,” she said when she came back.

Even without Al’s input, Sam would have taken the opening this offered him. “I’ve been assigned to look into the Minnewaukan sinkholes,” he said amiably. “Only I don’t quite know what to tell my superiors, since there doesn’t seem to be much of anything we can do about it.”

Sergeant Davis frowned. “The sinkholes? What does that have to do with the lake?”

“Well, apparently nothing. I thought maybe the drainage was affecting the higher ground, but—”

“No the water tables are totally off,” Davis said half to herself. Then she looked up as if she’d betrayed a state secret. “I should go clean up a little more,” she commented suddenly. She had no sooner spoken than she sidestepped him and made off down the hallway.

Sam turned as he passed him. “Wait, seriously, let me replace your lunch!” he offered again.

“Oh, no, no trouble!” she called over her shoulder. A second later, she turned a corner.

“Sam,” Al said at his elbow. “Call me crazy, but she was into you. Then you mentioned Minnewaukan and she….”

“Freaked?” Sam muttered, glad that he was alone in the hallway for the moment. “Yeah. I’m going to follow her. See what Ziggy can find on Sergeant First Class Davis.”

~*~*~*~ 

Sam followed Davis to a corridor marked “Authorized Personnel Only.” He waited until she keyed in and dashed forward just as the door was about to close, catching the edge of the door to slip through it. Once inside, he hung back for a few seconds while SFC Davis moved down the corridor and took a right turn. Sam trailed after her.

She went into the ladies’ room about three doors down on the left. Sam kept going along the corridor, reading the names on the offices, until he found hers. The door was locked, so Sam jotted down the department and the office number and went across the hall, pretending to be looking for her.

“I think she’s at lunch,” the junior officer inside told him.

“Thanks,” Sam said, as if he hadn’t already known this. “Have you been billeted at Grafton long?”

“Six months, sir,” came the polite answer. If there was a hint of, “Why?” behind the prompt reply, Sam ignored it.

“Do you know Sgt. Davis well?”

“Not very well, sir. Our offices really don’t interact.”

“Right. But you’ve seen her around,” Sam said with a knowing smile.

The junior officer relaxed. “Hard not to,” he admitted. “She keeps to herself, though,” he volunteered, as if eager to prove there was no inappropriate fraternization in play.

“Really? Pretty girl like she is? Does she have a boyfriend or anything, off-base?”

He looked uncomfortable again. “I wouldn’t know, sir.”

Sam nodded. “Right, of course not,” he said convivially. “You said your offices don’t really interact. Just curious: in this area, why wouldn’t the Training Purchasing Department interact with the Office of Community Relations?”

The young man blinked, and for a moment, Sam feared he had asked a question to which his cover would have already known the answer. Fortunately, whether or not that was true, the junior officer must have been used to “test” questions, because he set his jaw as if refusing to be phased. “Around here, sir, ‘Community Relations’ just means the Reservation. We don’t have much call to purchase anything on the Res, sir.”

Sam winked and nodded, letting the kid know he’d passed. “That would be…the Spirit Lake Reservation?”

“Yes, sir, over at Fort Totten.”

“Thanks.” Sam nodded again and turned to go. A sudden intuition struck him and he stopped at the door. “Hey, how far is Fort Totten from Minnewaukan?” he asked casually.

“About 15 or 20 miles, sir,” replied the kid with a shrug.

“Yeah, thanks,” Sam said again, waving his acknowledgement on his way out the door. He had a whole list of questions for Sergeant Davis now. 

But her door was still locked. Sam peered through the frosted glass for any sign of movement and saw none. Neither he nor the kid had seen her return, but with both doors closed that was hardly remarkable. Looking both ways for any observers, Sam sidled down the hall to the ladies’ room. He tentatively opened the door. “Housekeeping?” he called softly, voice breaking. There was no answer. Sam checked the hall again and ducked inside the tiled room. He came around the little privacy wall where the hand dryers were mounted. The line of sinks and mirrors to his left was empty, except for the reflection that didn’t match his memory of his face. The four stalls on his right all had open doors, hanging ajar on their hinges. And between the sinks and the stalls, high up on the wall, was an open transom window, just large enough for a size six like Davis to wriggle through.

~*~*~*~

Sam ducked back out of the restroom before anyone could find him there. Luckily, even on a National Guard base, there weren’t many female personnel. He made his way out of the command center and back to the motel. As he came up the hallway to the room, he heard voices inside. When he heard Sammy say, “Dr. Beckett,” he paused to listen.

“I’m not saying I _want_ him to stay in Dad’s place, Dean. I want Dad back, too,” Sammy continued whatever he’d been saying in a placating tone. “I just meant that if Dr. Beckett _can’t_ do what he says and bring Dad back…it might not be so bad.”

“Are you high? What happens to Dad?” Dean asked angrily.

“He’d be…safe. In the future. Without having to worry about taking care of us, I mean. He’d probably just pick right up hunting.” 

“Sammy, he’d be out of his mind without us,” Dean told his brother emphatically. Then, less sure: “Wouldn’t he?”

“He’d take care of himself. He always does. And he’d know we’re okay.” He gasped and added excitedly: “He might even find us in the future. They could look it up and show him where we live when we’re grown up. Dr. Beckett’s—”

“Not Dad,” Dean cut off whatever Sammy was going to say with his own assessment of what Dr. Beckett was—and apparently what he wasn’t. “We are not trading Dad in for a kinder, gentler model, Sammy!”

“But we could be _normal_ —live in one town, go to one school. Maybe only hunt once in a while, or on summer vacations. And he’s really smart—I bet he could help us with all our homework and projects and everything. I bet he’d even _offer_ to help.” Sam’s breath caught at the longing in that young voice.

“I don’t think keeping a scientist from the future stuck in Dad’s body qualifies as _nearly_ normal.” There was no doubt that Dean thought being a scientist was as lame as Sammy found it laudable. There was also no doubt that he thought his brother was on dangerous ground.

“Dean, I didn’t say I _wanted_ them to stay like this!” Sammy insisted.

“Yeah? Cause it sounds to me like you sure wouldn’t mind. Now cut it out, Sammy. We’re getting them switched back, and that’s final.”

“You sound like Dad,” Sammy said, his earlier plaintive tone evaporated into stubborn defiance.

“I’ll sound like him a lot more if I have to kick your butt about this again.”

Sam chose that moment to put the key in the lock and turn the knob as loudly as he could. “Kick Sammy’s butt about what, Dean?” he asked as he came through the door.

“About…wanting to come along on the next phase of the hunt,” Dean said smoothly. Kid was good; Sam had to hand it to him. If he hadn’t been outside eavesdropping, he’d never have guessed they’d just been arguing about trapping him here forever.

“Well, I might actually want you both along,” Sam told them. He explained quickly, remembering his promise to run all hunt-related plans past Dean. “I think our next steps are either to go to the reservation and find out what anyone there knows, either about Sergeant Davis, or about the sinkholes, or just go to the sinkholes themselves and see what we can see.”

“Reservation,” Sammy voted, just as Dean said, “Sinkholes.”

Dean turned to Sammy. “First-hand examination of the scene, Sammy. Can’t beat that for gathering evidence.”

“Dean, if someone on the reservation knows what this is, we can go to the scene prepared for it,” Sammy argued.

“Yes, and if someone on the reservation knows Sergeant Davis, then we can find out how she’s connected to this whole thing, if at all,” Sam added. “I think Sammy’s right. The Res is our next stop.”

It was easy enough to come up with a cover: John Cohasset was taking his boys on a living history trip over the summer. With a minimum of fuss, they found their way to the tribal administration center. Sammy had a ball talking with one of the tribal elders about a project he’d done that year on Wounded Knee and soon had the woman behind the reception desk offering him a piece of homemade fudge. Dean browsed the tomahawks in display cases and asked pointed questions about whether the Sioux of Spirit Lake had ever laid any curses on the white men back in the day. 

“Or, you know, even more recently?” 

The Santee elder grunted. “There’s a legend that the great medicine man Standing Bear placed a curse on inquisitive little boys,” he said.

“How about boys who eat too much fudge?” Dean asked, inclining his head toward Sammy.

“They bring their own curse on themselves,” said the elder with a smile. “But I don’t know of any curse that has ever come true in these parts.”

“Sir, what’s your opinion about the sinkholes up in Minnewaukan?” Sam asked.

The elder’s eyes dipped to his lap, then back up. “Minnewaukan land is _Wakan_ , holy,” he said. “But lately it has become…tainted by something. Mick Leaping Fox went to consult the stars three weeks ago. He hasn’t returned. I would avoid that place if I were you.”

Sam nodded while the boys exchanged a knowing look. “One more thing, if you don’t mind: Do you know a Sergeant First Class Davis from the National Guard camp?”

The secretary slammed her drawer shut too loudly. The elder said nothing for a long moment. “What does Lara have to do with Minnewaukan?” he asked finally.

“Maybe nothing. But I think she might know something about what’s going on out there. If you see her, would you please ask her to page me at this number?” Sam handed over a slip of paper in Dean’s handwriting.

“We haven’t seen her,” the secretary said quickly.

“Okay. Well, if you do,” Sam repeated. “C’mon, boys, we’ve taken up enough of these folks’ time,” he continued, surprised that both of the Winchester boys took their leaves without question or complaint.

Back outside in the blinding light, Dean said, “They _have_ seen her, I bet.”

“I bet, too,” Sammy said.

“That makes three of us.”

“Four,” Al said. Sam jumped.

“Dr. Beckett?” Dean asked. “You okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine,” Sam said. He pointed to a public bathroom. “You two need a pit stop?” They shook their heads. “Okay,” Sam said wearily. “Well, I’m going to take advantage. I’ll be back.” He walked toward the low building. 

Once he got a few paces away, he said under his breath, “What have you got, Al?”

“Well, I don’t know if it helps, but she has ties to both the lake and the reservation. Turns out, Lara Davis is that secretary’s niece.”

“Do you think she put a curse on the area for some reason?”

Al shrugged. “I seriously doubt it, Sam.”

“Okay. Well, what does Winchester have to say about destroying this thing without getting killed?”

“He’s…not very forthcoming. He’s demanding to be brought in here, to the imaging chamber.”

“Why?”

“Wants to check on his sons with his own eyes. I’m telling you Sam, we’ve had some difficult people in the waiting room, but….”

“Yeah, well, tell him his kids miss him, too,” Sam said. He suppressed the discussion he’d overheard earlier, chalking it up to nerves on the boys’ parts.

“I guess you can’t really blame him, doing what he does, which I still can’t quite believe, by the way—”

“Like you said, Al, doesn’t matter. Apparently it’s pretty real to them. What else does Davis have in common with the deaths so far? Anything?”

Al shook his head. “Gooshie can’t get Ziggy to be that specific. Davis wasn’t on duty at the training center during any of the incidents, but we don’t have a way to pinpoint her whereabouts. Do you think she could be controlling whatever this is?”

“I think it’s a fair possibility. She’s a local who knows the area. What I can’t figure out is why—I mean, it doesn’t seem to be serving any useful purpose. The guys in the engineering corps say the lake needs to be drained, and the water supplies aren’t common to both areas, so what’s the big deal?’

Al consulted his readout. “Whatever the deal is, Sam, I think Ziggy just found something for you: Sergeant First Class Lara Davis has a 60% likelihood of dying at the Minnewaukan Cemetery tonight.”


	4. Chapter 4

“Stakeouts are fun,” Dean announced when Sam told them they were going to the cemetery. Four hours later, Dean agreed with Sammy. “This is boring. When do we get to hunt the monster?”

“With any luck, you don’t,” Sam said over his shoulder. He longed to get out of the car himself, stretch his legs, even just stand up for a bit. He had settled for putting his feet up on the passenger seat, while Sammy and Dean shared the back. 

“Maybe we should take a walk over there,” Sammy suggested. “See what the terrain is like. Dad doesn’t like to hunt if he doesn’t know what the terrain will be like.”

“Good idea, Sammy,” Dean said immediately. It was a mark of how bored he really was that he neither put down nor tried to counter Sammy’s recommendation. “You can stay here and watch the entrance, and Sammy and I can take a run around the path. There’s nothing suspicious about two kids going for a run, is there?”

Sam wanted to protest. He could see the caution tape looped around stakes at one of the sink hole sites, the most recent one, from the look of the tape. “The ground may be dangerous,” he pointed out.

“Well, we’re lighter than you are,” Sammy said tactlessly. “Not that Dad’s fat, because he’s not,” he added hastily. “But we’re littler.”

“Sammy’s right. We’re less likely to fall in.”

Sam considered this. “That’s true,” he admitted. “But I’m not taking chances with kids’ lives. Tell you what. Stick to the road through the cemetery—no going off on the grass. Once around, walking, and then come back. Tell me what you see.”

They opened the doors almost before he had finished speaking. Sam sat back to resume his vigil, alternating now between the boys’ progress and the main entrance. Lara Davis still hadn’t put in an appearance.

As if letting the boys go had been a summons, a silver Accord pulled through the gate about two minutes later. Sam held up his binoculars to see the driver. “Bingo,” he breathed. Lara Davis drove in and turned left, away from the direction the boys had gone. Sam struggled to get his legs back into the foot well so that he could climb out of the Impala.

On foot, he followed the leftward path. The red glint of the setting sun reflected off the silver trunk, making the car easy to spot in the fading light. Davis parked near a section that had been posted with signs. “Danger,” they said, and, “Please do not walk on grass.” She got out of her car with a canvas bag and went around to the trunk of the car.

Sam caught up with her fast. “Sergeant Davis?” he called, adopting a “Fancy meeting you here” sort of surprise. “I was hoping I’d see you again, but not quite like this,” he said as he walked over.

Davis jumped and dropped her bag on the asphalt. 

“Sorry,” Sam said. “I seem to keep making you lose hold of things.” He bent over to pick up the bag before she could. It was heavy, and a stain was forming on the bottom. “I uh, think you broke something,” he said, as the wet stain spread. He jiggled the bag and heard glass. “God, I’m so sorry….”

But the look on her face made him stop apologizing. “Oh, gods,” she said, trembling. “Give it to me, quick!”

He handed over the bag and she turned away from him to open it on the ground. She covered the opening with her body, but Sam could see from his vantage something that looked like a dead animal, and not glass, but broken shards of a clay pot. And the wet substance inside surely wasn’t blood, but it looked more like…

“Milk?” he asked.

“Fresh goat’s milk, yes,” she muttered. She tossed the bag as far into the grass as she could. “You shouldn’t have come here,” she told him. “Get in the car!”

Sam was about to argue, but at that moment he felt a tremor near the edge of the road. “What did you do?” he demanded.

“What did _I_ do?” she said. “You startled me. I broke the talisman. Now I can’t contain it to get rid of it. Get in the car!” She ducked inside and turned the ignition.

Sam felt the rumble increase. He moved quickly to the passenger side and climbed in just as Davis was slamming the car into gear. Before he even shut the door, she was gunning it.

“Don’t get me wrong,” he said as she turned around in a circle built in to the pathway, “but aren’t we a little heavy for unstable ground?”

“Not if we get out of the way fast enough,” Davis said. “Shut up now, please, driving.”

Sam shut up and let her burst through the cemetery. As they drove past the center ring, he saw Dean and Sammy running to follow.

“Wait!” he yelled. “There’re kids out there!”

Davis screeched the braked and the boys reached the car. Sam waved at them frantically. “Get in! Get in!” he ordered. They clambered into the back seat and Davis took off again, laying down rubber in her haste.

She didn’t stop when she passed through the cemetery gates. “Who are you, really?” she demanded, still driving away from the holy ground.

“I don’t really have time to explain,” Sam started to say.

“And you two? What are you doing out here—where are your parents?” Davis asked over Sam’s aborted explanation.

“We’re on a scouting field trip,” Sammy said quickly. “Dean’s trying to get his merit badge in Landscape Architecture.”

Davis looked at Sammy in the rearview mirror, but Sam turned in his bucket seat. Both boys looked completely innocent. _Unbelievable,_ Sam thought. Still, it was clear that Davis didn’t credit them for a second.

“What were _you_ doing?” Dean asked before she could call their bluff.

“I was…that’s not the point,” she replied. “Where are your parents? We need to get you home as quickly as possible.”

“We need to take care of whatever’s back there first,” Sam said quickly. “What did you mean when you said you couldn’t get rid of it?”

“You wouldn’t believe me,” Davis said.

“Try us,” Sam, Sammy, and Dean all said at the same time.

She hit the brake suddenly, looking at them all with renewed interest. Sammy slid on his seat, but caught himself on her seat back. “Wait a minute… Aunt Jean said there was a family out at the Res today, asking questions. Agent Orange, are these your sons?”

Sammy burst out in giggles at the name, and once he started laughing, Dean couldn’t help himself. “Agent Orange!” Sammy repeated through giggles. 

“Sorry,” Dean managed to choke out. “Sorry, but… Agent Orange?”

“Boys, that’s not nice. He can’t help it if his name is….” She looked back at him. “Wait. Do they know you or not?”

Sam rolled his eyes. It occurred to him that Dean was acting just like he’d never heard the name before, giving Sam the option of playing it either way. But Sam was tired of maintaining not one, but two covers. He shook his head. “Sergeant Davis, believe me when I tell you that these boys are not my sons—” Sammy looked betrayed and Dean said, “Hey!” in protest, but Sam continued— “but they have been helping me with this investigation. It’s all above board, don’t worry. The important thing is that we need to stop whatever is happening. So if you know anything, now’s the time to tell us.”

Davis stared at Sam for a moment as if she couldn’t decide whether he was a mastermind or a pervert. Just when he thought she might toss them all out of the car, Sammy said, “Ma’am, Uncle John’s right. It doesn’t matter right now just who we are or why we’re helping him out this summer. What matters is making sure that no one else gets hurt. You already knew that, if you were trying to stop it yourself. So if you tell us what you were planning to do, and what we’re up against, maybe we can all figure something out together.”

Why hadn’t Sam thought to say they were his nephews? He wanted to hug Sammy right there. No doubt about it, the Winchester boys were used to thinking on their feet. He glanced back at Sgt. Davis, who was looking at each of them in turn. Finally she seemed to reach a decision.

“I don’t know whether I believe you or not. And I don’t think we should put these children in danger, uh, John,” she chose, opting for that rather than the ridiculous cover name.

“Danger’s my middle name,” Dean declared.

“I thought it was Trouble,” Sammy fired back.

“Funny, I thought it was Be Quiet and Let the Lady Speak,” Sam growled. Both boys looked at each other, but they shut up.

“It’s a little freaky….” Davis ventured, pulling the car over more properly and setting the gear shift to Park. At Sam’s encouraging nod and hand roll, she took the plunge. “It’s a spirit. Well, more like a totem animal. A really, really obscure one. _TakiMiniAgleska._ According to Lakota myth, it’s like a sort of lizard that lives underground.”

“Like a giant alligator in the sewers?” Dean asked with excitement.

“More or less,” Davis admitted.

“How come no one’s ever heard of it then, like Nessie or Champ?” Sammy asked.

“I wouldn’t say no one’s heard of anything like it,” Davis sighed. “Beowulf had Grendel, after all.”

“Why the drought?” Sam wondered.

“I’ve been trying to figure that out,” Davis said. “When you mentioned the lake, it suddenly made sense. At first I thought it was something about the cemetery itself.”

“Your tribal elder, he said the land here was sacred,” Sam pointed out. “Could that be why?”

“Sammy,” Dean interrupted from the back seat, “When was this cemetery built? Do you remember what that plaque said?”

“What plaque?” Sam asked, but Sammy was already answering.

“When we were walking around, there was a memorial in the center, with a plaque,” Sammy told him. “This wasn’t the original spot where the cemetery was. They moved it in 1984, on the town centennial.”

“It must have been piss—I mean, ticked off,” Dean amended quickly with a sidelong look at Sam, “putting a cemetery on holy ground. But then wouldn’t it have pulled its sinkhole act back then?” He looked at his brother. “Have there been any other years with this kind of activity?”

Sammy shrugged. “I don’t have the notes we took, Dean. They’re in the motel.”

“Do you remember?” Dean pressed.

“No!” Sammy shouted. “If I remembered, I wouldn’t need to look at my notes!”

“Okay, okay, boys,” Sam said. “Let’s not worry about that now. You were saying?” He looked at Davis.

“Right, it’s _not_ because of putting the cemetery here. Here’s just where it’s…stuck, effectively. The irrigation actually runs away from the lake, but the spirit probably needs some water to survive. The irrigation and the lake drainage combined are drying up the land between the two places, creating a high ground in the middle. It’s making it harder for the spirit creature to travel between here, its natural resting place, and the lake, its traditional feeding ground.”

“I’m confused,” Dean announced. “Is it a spirit, or a living creature?”

“Both,” Davis told him.

“Okay. We know what it is.” Sam looked at Davis. “Now what do we do about it?”

“Well, ideally we’d stop the irrigation and throw all the whites out of the area,” Davis said sardonically. “But since that’s somewhat impractical… I was going to make an offering of goat’s milk, animal bones, and horse hide,” she told him. “If I could appease it for a bit, I have a ritual to send it back to the spirit plane, and leave its host body.”

“So, it’s like it’s possessing something, but not a person, an animal?” Sammy asked.

Davis nodded. “Uncle Mick says the Agleska inhabits a normal lizard, takes it as an avatar of sorts. The presence of the spirit swells it up many times its natural size.”

“Cool,” both boys said with a fascinated grin at each other.

Sam was less than thrilled, but focused on the job at hand. “How long will it take to make up a new bag?”

“Got any nanny goats around?” Davis asked. “A few hours. Why?”

Sam looked back at Dean, who met his eye resolutely. “I have a plan.”

~*~*~*~

Davis brought them back to the Impala while Sam sketched out his plan. After dropping them off, Davis headed back for the reservation, where she could replace the clay pot. She said that the symbols on it would help attract the creature. The goat’s milk had to be fresh, so he told her they might as well wait until morning. Sam drove back to the motel. A quick consultation with the phone book confirmed that he would have to go to Grand Forks for the equipment he needed.

“Come on, if we hurry, we can get there before they close,” Sam said to Sammy and Dean.

“Then you should let Dean drive,” Sammy said solemnly.

Sam thanked his namesake for the suggestion, but respectfully declined. “If I’m going to be pulled over for speeding, I’d rather not also be cited for letting a twelve-year-old drive.”

They screamed into the store parking lot a full fifteen minutes before closing. “Okay, everyone know what he’s getting?” Sam asked as he shut off the car.

“Yes, sir,” they both said. Sam never could quite get used to the unison, militaristic response. Sam ran inside, the boys hard on his heels. Heading for his own assigned item, Sam pulled up to admire the precision training John Winchester had instilled in his sons. Dean and Sammy were both waiting for him when he got to the register. They piled up the harness, karabiners, and rope alongside the tranquilizer gun and its cartridges.

“Little early for hunting season,” the kid at the register said. His nametag said “Victor” and he looked about nineteen, with smooth, dark skin and a half-inch afro.

“Heading into rough territory,” Sam said gruffly. “Heard there’re some cougars sighted.”

“See your permit?” Victor asked.

Sam narrowed his eyes at the retail jockey. He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out the first fake government ID that came to hand. He flourished it in front of the kid.

“FBI?” Victor asked. Sam couldn’t be certain whether he was impressed or incredulous, but then he smiled broadly. “Cool. I was thinking about that, after college.”

“We’re always recruiting,” Sam said. “Especially if your grades are high.”

Victor lost no further time on the sale, but talked at Sam some more about the major he was thinking of declaring, whether UND would be a prestigious enough institution for consideration, and asking his opinion about whether ROTC would be a wise extracurricular activity. Sam fielded the questions patiently, wishing that Al would show up to help bolster his spotty memories of the few agents who had checked in on their project occasionally, “In the interest of national security.” Meanwhile, Dean snickered at the kid’s sudden change in attitude; Sammy kicked his leg, which devolved into some horseplay. 

“Boys!” Sam said sharply. “Now is not the time.” He squeezed Dean’s shoulder to separate them, looking as stern as he could.

If the kid found anything weird about a man and two boys showing up to buy a trank gun with government ID, he wisely thought better of questioning it. Five minutes later, they were back in the car.

“You’re getting pretty good at this, Dr. Beckett,” Sammy said with admiration.

“Well, I get a lot of practice pretending to be other people,” Sam admitted. “I guess you kinda get used to it after a while.”

~*~*~*~

They met Davis the next morning outside the cemetery. The light was grey and uninviting, but the filtered quality of the air did nothing to dissipate the summer heat that was growing more oppressive as the morning drew on. Sam pulled the Impala next to Davis’s car and she shut hers off, jumped in to the passenger seat beside him.

“Are you sure this is going to work?” Sam asked her. “The ritual, I mean,” he added.

Davis shrugged. “I don’t have any better ideas,” she said.

“Right.” Sam turned in his seat to check on Dean, who was struggling into the harness with Sammy’s sleepy help. “Dean? You ready?”

“You’re using the kid?” Davis asked, her pitch rising along with her volume.

“You’re using the kid?” Al asked, appearing outside Sam’s window.

Sam closed his eyes. “I don’t like it, but he’s lighter than we are.” He opened the car door, forcing himself to ignore how it passed right through Al’s holographic frame. “Let’s see that rig,” Sam told Dean. Dean climbed out, tugging his jeans around the straps of the harness. Sam knelt in front of Dean to help adjust the tension.

“Okay,” Sam said, half to himself and half to Dean. “Sergeant Davis? Could you please tell Dean here what he needs to do?”

“Yeah, and if he’s gotta say anything, write it down,” Sammy quipped. 

Davis set her mouth in disapproval. “I don’t think you’re really a DoD agent, but even if you were, I’m not endangering a child.”

“I’m not going to be in danger,” Dean told her through the open driver’s door. “That’s what this stupid thing is for,” he explained. Sam meanwhile rigged the rope and karabiner through the harness clips. He tied the rope off and tested the knot. 

“I’ll be on the rope, so if something happens, we can haul him back up.”

Davis looked about to protest again, but Dean said, “It’s okay. I volunteered. Just tell me what to do.”

Davis sighed. “No, I’ll go. I’m light.”

“NO!” Sam and Al both said. “I don’t like it, Sam, but you can’t let her go; Ziggy says she still might die.”

Sam continued over him: “You’re not as light as he is. Come on, we’re wasting time.”

“Okay,” Davis said after another moment’s hesitation. “If you’re sure,” she said to Dean.

Dean grinned. “I’m sure.” 

Davis reached down in the foot well for the bag. She got out of the car and Dean met her on her side.

“Sammy, you stay in the car,” Sam said.

“Yeah, yeah,” Sammy said, already settling himself against the window with a book, as if he were used to being left in the protective circle of the car. That didn’t stop him from checking Dean frequently over the margins of the pages.

Handing Dean the bag, Davis explained. “We need a fire going, first. There’s kindling in here and some matches. Then you’ll have to take the rest of the bag into one of the open sinkholes. Have you got a knife or something?” she asked.

Dean pulled out one of the two skinning knives they’d bought on their ammo stop and strapped the sheath to his belt.

Davis’s eyebrows lifted. “Okay, once you’re down there, draw the symbol on the clay pot into the earth walls. That’ll contain the creature when it comes, keep it from leaving. Then break open the jar, as bait. It’ll smell the milk from miles away. We’ll pull you out. While it’s working on the offering, pour this over the fire.” She handed him a packet of herbs from her pocket. “I can do the chant from a safe distance.”

“And that’s it?” Dean asked. Sammy, meanwhile, wordlessly handed him a flashlight.

“That will dispel the spirit, yeah. And _that_ should shrink the animal host back down to normal.”

“Okay,” Dean said. 

Al motioned Sam to the back of the car. “I think I can help, Sam,” Al said. “I’ve asked Gooshie to program Ziggy for sensitivity to ground tremors. If the creature is moving, it will create vibrations. I can give you a heads up.”

“How about a heads up on whether the ground is unstable?” Sam muttered under his breath, hiding behind the open trunk lid. He carefully left the secret compartment closed. Al just shrugged and apologized for the computer’s limitations. 

While Davis finished her instructions to Dean, Sam took out the tranquilizer gun from trunk and checked it over. “Just in case,” he said, handing it to Davis. “Can you fire one of these?”

Davis inspected the rifle. “Should be fine,” she affirmed. 

“Let’s go,” Sam said. He looked up again. The sky was still grey and shadowy. “We may have caught a break,” he told the others. “The eclipse will keep the sun off, so the creature’s more likely to be awake.”

“That’s a good thing?” Davis asked him.

“Well, we don’t know where it’s sleeping, right?” Sam pointed out. 

The three of them picked their way carefully toward the sinkhole caution posts, Al trying to pace Dean, who was walking a little ahead of the adults. Dean tested the ground with the toe of his sneaker, so the going was slow, but eventually he reached the perimeter that the groundskeepers had marked. He put down the bundle, opened it up, and built the fire quickly. When it was burning, he turned back to Sam.

“Ready?” he called.

Sam braced the rope around his legs, gripping loosely in his gloved hands. “Ready,” he said with a nod.

Dean edged toward the hole. “Don’t break the jar until you’re ready to come back up,” Davis instructed. “It will smell the milk and come out before you’re ready otherwise.”

Dean nodded to acknowledge her. He sat on the edge of the hole and got out his flashlight, peering into the gloom. Sam braced. A second later, Dean dropped. Sam held the rope steady, then fed slack in an even motion. He didn’t remember ever going climbing, but for some reason he knew how to do this. Unintentional discoveries like this made him wonder what other hidden skills he would remind himself he had the longer he leaped, and whether, if he kept going long enough, he’d remember enough about the project to be able to help his team get him home.

“I’m down!” Dean shouted, muffled by earth, but audible. A few minutes passed. Then they heard a crack, and then, “Done! Pull me up!”

Sam hauled with all his strength. Davis set down the gun and helped him, hand-over-hand, to pull Dean back to the surface. Dean grabbed at the edge, but it came away in his hands. Sam stumbled forward from the sudden shift in weight.

“Whoa!” Dean cried. Sam righted himself. “I can’t get back up! The ground’s too shifty.”

Al bounced on his toes in distress. “Sam, it’s coming! You gotta get him back up!”

Sam braced. “Davis, give him some help. Be careful!” As soon as Al said something, he could feel the ground tremble. He couldn’t tell if the vibrations were real yet or just a phantom created by Al’s warning. He had no idea how close the creature was. 

Davis ran forward, the rifle still in her hands. She stepped around the fire. “Give me your hand!” she shouted, going to her knees, while Sam pulled on the rope as hard as he could. Dean’s hand appeared through the hole, and she grabbed it. She dropped the rifle to add her other hand. Sam hauled; Davis hauled; Dean grabbed for purchase; he came up.

“The packet!” Davis ordered, panic and adrenaline making her voice shrill.

Dean rolled away from the edge and dug into his jeans pocket for the herbs. He handed them to her then lay on his back, breathing heavily. Davis got to her feet and edged around to the fire. She ripped open the envelope, ready to pour the herbs on the fire.

A second and another tremor later, the ground under the fire fell away, and the flames with it.

Davis grabbed Dean’s rope to keep from going in, which yanked Dean over toward his edge. He grabbed the end of the rope where Sam had tied it, giving her tension. “Sammy!” Dean screamed. “Sammy, get over here and help us!”

But Sammy was in the car and too far away to hear or see them. Al came to Sam’s elbow, coaching him to hold fast. Davis was good; she didn’t kick or flail, but got the envelope into her teeth and pulled herself up the rope hand-over-hand while Dean and Sam each braced their own end. She had barely reached the ground again when they felt a distinct tremor underneath their feet. 

”The chant!” Sam shouted. “Start the chant!”

“The fire’s out! It’s no good!” Davis screamed back.

“Okay, get back, get back!” Sam told them both. Davis ran back to his point of safety, but Dean crawled over to peer down the hole. “Dean!”

“QUIET!” Dean shouted, holding up his hand. He felt along the ground for the rifle. They could hear as well as feel the creature now. Dean lowered the rifle barrel right down into the hole. Sam held his breath.

The movement beneath them stopped. Davis put her hand on Sam’s arm and squeezed.

BANG! Dean had fired. About ten seconds later, they felt a “thud” down below. Dean looked over to Sam and gave a thumbs-up sign.

“Sergeant Davis?” he called. “I think we can rebuild that fire now.”

~*~*~*~

Sam, Dean, and Sammy watched Davis pour the herbs on the fire. The flames turned blue. Mixed smells of mint and something skunky assaulted their senses, and Sammy gagged. Dean squeezed his eyes shut against the fumes, coughing. Overhead, the sky had begun to lighten up again; their shadows on the grass had odd crescents cut out of them.

“So cool,” Sammy said.

“Yeah, this Native American stuff is kinda like its own hoodoo,” Dean agreed quietly.

Sammy looked at his brother with disgust. “Not that, dumbass, the eclipse.”

Dean sniffed, then coughed again as the smell hit him. “Right, I knew that.”

“Yeah, sure you did,” Sammy said with rolled eyes.

“And don’t call me a dumbass,” Dean muttered, as an afterthought.

“You know, there’s some kind of an eclipse about every 18 months,” Sam told Sammy, “but the odds of a total eclipse occurring in the same spot is only about every 370 years. And it’s only total for about seven minute from any particular vantage point.”

Dean glanced from his brother to the scientist who still looked like his father. “Please, please tell me you can go back now,” he said to Sam, “because one geek in the family is already too many.”

Sam laughed. “Thanks for your help, Dean,” he said, wondering himself if Al had an answer to the question about why he hadn’t yet Leapt. “You and Sammy.”

Dean grinned broadly. “Team Winchester,” he said with frank pride. Sammy snorted, but he was blushing, too. “Maybe this will convince Dad we can help him more often.”

“Can you bring Dad back now?” Sammy asked. “Not that we haven’t appreciated you, but…” he looked at his brother with something like an apologetic smile, “he’s our Dad. And we’d like him back. You know?”

Sam ruffled the kid’s hair. “I know. I’m not sure why—”

“The eclipse, Sam, Ziggy thinks as soon as it clears up you’ll leap out of here,” Al put in.

“Correction,” Sam continued midstream. “We should be able to get things back to normal about the same time the sky gets back to normal.”

Davis was walking toward them. Dean asked, with the haste of knowing they wouldn’t be alone much longer, “Will he…know what happened?”

Sam shook his head. “I don’t really know. I’m not usually here to find out. But I don’t think so. You’ll have to fill him in. But…something tells me you two are pretty good at that kind of thing.”

“Team Winchester,” Sammy echoed. Dean punched his arm.

Davis reached them. “Well, that’s sorted out,” she said. “Uncle Mick’s powder worked. I wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t seen it, but that giant lizard turned back into a salamander.”

“Is it okay?” Sammy asked.

“It’s already finding its way back to water,” Davis said. “I think things will get back to normal pretty soon.” She looked at Sam. “I…didn’t say anything earlier, but I did some checking last night. You’re not with the DoD, and your name’s not really Agent Orange. Right?”

Sam smiled. “True. Sorry about that.”

She shrugged. “That’s okay. I should probably turn you in for impersonating a federal officer, but….” She looked back at the smouldering fire. “I think I’ll go home. Take a bath. Maybe I’ll take tomorrow off, too. I might file a report on Monday.”

Sam nodded. “Thanks,” he said on behalf of John Winchester and his sons. He had no doubt that once Winchester leapt back in, they’d be long gone within twenty-four hours.

“No. Thank _you,_ ” Davis said. She leaned up to kiss his cheek…and Sam felt the electric pins and needles that meant he was about to Leap....

**Author's Note:**

> The July 11 eclipse, Minnewaukan, Devil’s Lake, the reservation, the drainage project, and the National Guard training facility are all real. The MotW is not. I don’t speak Lakota; I cobbled together some vocabulary found online to create the name of the creature.


End file.
